Two Weeks Both Is and Isn't Enough
by Hoodoo
Summary: A unilateral decision is made to take a break from their lives.  Set post-movie, Hannibal-centric.
1. Chapter 1

Still don't own recognizable characters. I'm still tentative as to how much 'geek' Murdock would mention (pop culture and geek aren't necessarily the same thing), so it's kept to a minimum. And I'll admit, I'm crushing heavily on Hannibal recently . . .

Also, a huge **thank you!** to everyone who's reviewed my previous A-Team pieces. You make my day.

Enjoy!

* * *

><p>Time off. They'd earned it. Christ, they'd earned it.<p>

He felt bruised and tired and _old. _He hated feeling old. But after a job like the last one—physical and punishing—the three younger men could bounce back more quickly. They slept hard, tended wounds, brushed themselves off, and were ready for more. Lately he'd slept like the dead and woke up feeling like being dead was an okay alternative.

The rest of them didn't make concessions for him—they understood he'd find a way to make them miserable if they made overt attempts to treat him "special" due to the age difference—but he was silently grateful for the bottle of Advil left anonymously in the hotel bathroom that morning. He didn't even care that someone had come in, unbeknownst to him, while he was showering.

He'd found it after he'd stepped out of the shower. He had tried not to stand under the hot spray of water to soak the heat into his muscles so long that they would _know. _But he was in there a long time, so hurried his toweling off. A smear of blood on the towel told him the steam had caused his split lip to ooze again.

Damp-dry in his clothes with a towel pressed to his mouth in one hand and three of the Advils in the other, Hannibal left the bathroom to find the others sitting on the two beds, dividing up the—

"Spoils!" Murdock announced. Although it wasn't common, occasionally the pilot slipped into pirate mode. He was reaching for one of the stacks of bills fanned out in front of Face.

"Put it down, fool!" B.A. told him.

"Wasn't doin' nuff'in, gov'nor," Murdock complained, then slumped to the floor between the beds.

"Both of you shut up. I lost count," ordered Face.

Without waiting for a response from the other two, Face ignored them as he kept tallying. He sorted the money into different piles, while sporadically looking up to the ceiling as he ticked a mental checklist off his fingers.

Murdock tried slinking a hand onto the bedspread again, inching towards the bills. He deliberately tried to reach the stack nearest B.A., and predictably the black man told him,

"You touch that an' you'll be nursin' another broken hand, man."

Since Murdock's left hand already had taped fingers from a crushing incident during the job, he wisely snuck back to the floor, muttering to himself of invisibility cloaks and bags of holding.

Face shot them another dirty look.

Hannibal watched the scene while rubbing his hair with the towel. He knew it would take a bit for the NSAID to kick in and debated taking it dry. Coffee would be good. Thankfully, Murdock had some brewing in the room's urn. How had he not noticed that before? Less thankfully, they still had the civet coffee Murdock had insisted on buying. No one else had been keen on drinking "cat shit coffee," as B.A. eloquently called it—Face and Hannibal agreed with less vocalization—but Murdock refused to make any other until it was gone.

They were bickering again as Hannibal poured himself a cup. Tossing back the pills and taking a quick gulp of hot coffee to wash them down, he savored the next mouthful before joining the team.

He sat down on the bed opposite of Face and B.A. Murdock picked his head up.

"Morning, Bossman. How's the lip?"

"It'll heal," he replied, intentionally raising his cup back to his mouth and _not_ wincing as the hot liquid sent a bolt of pain through his head.

Murdock nodded.

"And you?"

Besides the hand, their pilot had a black eye and a bruised and scraped face.

Experimentally, Murdock shifted his jaw back and forth. "Dandy," he replied. "Oughtta find a dentist, maybe. Broke a tooth."

Hannibal nodded too. All of them had various scrapes and bruises and aches.

No one said anything else until Face had finished his counting.

"Lucrative!" he announced finally. He waved his hand over the several piles he'd made. "This one is the group's. We owe for the stay here, and food, and the usual stuff. The rest, however—"

Dutifully, he began passing out stacks of money.

Murdock giggled in glee. B.A. immediately licked his thumb and began counting his take. Hannibal took the offered cash and set it on the bedspread beside him, staring down at it. Face leaned back on the headboard and grinned.

Copying the black man, Murdock began counting aloud as well, mixing up numbers and accents. It was hard to tell if he was doing it on purpose, or just to antagonize—

"Shut your fool mouth, crazy man!"

B.A. didn't care if it was premeditated baiting.

"I'm tryin' to concentrate!"

The pilot jumped up and hung over B.A., now obviously trying to make him lose count. B.A. tried to be gruff, and for the most part was, but he couldn't help a smile breaking through once in a while as Murdock kept it up.

At least the Advil should help with any headaches too, Hannibal thought off-handedly.

He finally looked up as the bed below him shifted. Face had joined him, leaving the other two to continue their habitual squabbling.

"Not a bad one, huh, Hannibal?" the former Lieutenant asked.

The older man made a non-committal noise.

Face didn't seem to notice. "So what's next, Boss? I got the lead on another—"

"We're taking time off."

Sudden, stunned silence filled the room.

He wasn't one to typically offer explanations, but the stares he was receiving begged for more.

"This was a good haul. We need to take a break—from work, from each other, from everything."

"But—"

"Hannibal—"

Only B.A. seemed to be taking this announcement in stride.

"Bosco, I'm going to need a ride to the airport."

"I can take you!" Murdock interjected, a note of alarm in his voice. "I can take you, Hannibal! Where ever you need flown to, I'm your man!"

Hannibal shook his head and caught B.A.'s eyes. The black man nodded and smiled.

Murdock exuded panic as he turned his attention to Face. He telepathically beseeched for help from their unofficial second in command.

"Let's go have breakfast, Boss," the conman said smoothly.

Say what you want about the man, Hannibal thought drily, he recovered or hid surprise well, most of the time.

Face had continued, "We'll get something to eat, and talk about it—"

"No. You boys deserve a rest too. Do what you want—go to Vegas or New York or stay here for that matter. Matter of fact, we'll meet back here in two weeks."

"Two WEEKS?" Murdock's voice rose to a squeak.

B.A. took great enjoyment that the pilot was disconcerted. Face's cool broke for the second time.

"Come on, Hannibal," he said uneasily. "You're right—you're always right. We need a break. But two weeks . . . that seems a little excessive . . ."

Hannibal knew that two weeks was excessive for a man like Face, who blew through whatever money he had as fast as he could. He was not a hoarder; when he got it, he spent it. But this was a well-paid job, and Face should have plenty to last—

"Don't go to Vegas," Hannibal amended himself. "Go to the Air and Space Museum at the Smithsonian instead."

Murdock did a double take.

"Ooo—yeah! That's a great idea! And the National Zoo, for the pandas!"

Two down, one to go.

"That's a great idea, Boss," Face replied cynically. "Waltz into Washington D.C? Where the Feds are."

"Don't go to the Pentagon or the White House and you'll be fine," Hannibal snapped.

Face looked taken aback.

Hannibal stood, picked up his stack of bills, and returned his coffee cup to the table next to the urn. He picked up his duffel bag. As was customary, it was packed every night, in case of the need for a speedy exit. Haphazardly he shoved the money into the top.

B.A. stood too, still smiling, and put his money in his front pocket. Murdock stood planted in between the beds, but Face was at the older man's side before B.A. could get there.

"Hannibal," he said softly, with a touch of pleading in his voice and a hand on the older man's upper arm.

"Your flirting doesn't work with me, kid," Hannibal replied.

B.A. guffawed; Face ignored him and continued to search Hannibal's face. Hannibal didn't particularly like the younger man's expression: betrayal, hurt, incomprehension.

"Boss . . . " Hannibal didn't think his own expression hardened, but Face immediately shifted gears and nodded. "Okay. Okay. The airport. We'll take you to the airport."

Murdock declared he was still available to fly to where ever, come on, Bossman—

"B.A.'ll take me," Hannibal said.

Murdock stopped.

Face pressed his lips together a moment, then the mellifluous voice was back. "At least tell us where you'll be?"

Hannibal laughed aloud. "Kid, that was the worst you've ever tried to weasel information out of somebody. B.A., let's go."

The black man grinned again and punched Murdock's shoulder. "Later, crazy."

Face didn't move out of the way, so B.A. slipped passed, through the door Hannibal left open.

"I'll have my phone," Hannibal finally conceded over his shoulder. "But don't call me. Meet you back here, this hotel. Two weeks."

He and B.A. walked to the van without a backwards look.


	2. Chapter 2

At least B.A. didn't try to dig information out of him. As they pulled into the airport and he asked what airline, Hannibal told him it didn't matter and the black man didn't question it.

Pulling to the curb to let him off at one of the major carriers, B.A. told him to be careful. Hannibal knocked the offered fist with his own, and didn't watch the vehicle drive away.

He bought his ticket, trying not to dwell on the fact that this was a bad idea. On the plane, in the air, he continued not to think about the fact that he hadn't thought this through and he never did that, and there was no plan, and that made him nervous beyond belief, and he was going to be stiff and more sore after getting out of this uncomfortable seat.

Then the plane was touching down and he was getting into a taxi. It was still a bad idea.

Bad idea, bad idea, bad ideabadideabadidea—

And then he was there, and walking up the sidewalk. Of its own accord, his fist—the one with the scraped knuckles, this is going to hurt—knocked on the door.

It was a few minutes, then she opened the door, and it wasn't a bad idea after all.

* * *

><p>Her eyes widened. "John!" she cried, falling into his open arms.<p>

"Stella," he breathed out into her hair. She hugged him, and the press of her body against his negated the aches in his muscles.

They stood on the stoop longer than would have been comfortable if other people watched them. Stella extracted one arm to reposition it over his shoulder, and he opened his mouth as she kissed him. Deep and heady, he allowed himself to be lost in it until she broke the kiss herself, pulling back slightly from him with a smile on her face.

"Nothing like a bloody kiss," she laughed and very gently touched his wound on his lip. "I'm sorry—I shouldn't have kissed you like that. It obviously hurts."

"Don't apologize. Don't ever apologize for that," he ordered.

Without stepping out of his arms, Stella looked him over. "You're hurt everywhere. Come in."

She reached for his bag; he didn't relinquish it, so she led him by the hand into the house.

"You added a fireplace," he observed.

She shook her head. "That's neither here nor there. Let's get you upstairs so I can take care of you."

"That sounds dirty, woman. I like it."

She laughed, and he grinned. "You need to rest first—you're exhausted! Then, depending on your schedule . . ."

"I've got some time."

"Wonderful!"

Still holding his hand, she took him upstairs to her bedroom.

* * *

><p>When Hannibal woke several hours later, he lay with his eyes closed for a bit. Three showers in less than 24 hours. His cuts and scrapes tended to and bandaged. A bed more comfortable than he'd been afforded in a long time. Stella, downstairs waiting for him.<p>

It made him smile.

When he got out of the bed and to the bathroom, he smiled again. When he'd been escorted here, it was an ordinary bathroom: all feminine and functional. Now he noticed she'd set out his razor and cologne and toothbrush, subtly changing it to a shared bath.

He couldn't stop smiling as he went downstairs to find her.

It was near dinner time, and she was in the kitchen.

"You're up!" she exclaimed and left the stove to hug him. "You could have slept longer—I would have held dinner for you."

Hannibal shook his head. "No need, I slept enough. I'm hungry though."

"Food'll be ready soon. Sit down and tell me what's been happening with you."

He did, and told her about some of jobs the team had taken recently. Nothing in too much detail, he never wanted to worry her, but he knew she was astute enough to see between his white lies.

As she joined him at the table and they ate, he continued. She was duly interested and asked appropriate questions. She knew of the younger men he worked with but had never met them; Hannibal took pains to try and keep her separate from anything illegal. He made a passing comment about that.

"Anything illegal except for you, you mean!" she replied.

He ducked semi-guiltily. "I never mean for you to do anything criminal. I'm so sorry, Stella—I never wanted it to be like this—"

She reached for his hand again. "John, it is whatever it is. I'll have you however I can, whenever I can. You know that."

Hannibal studied her hand. "I just don't want anything to hurt you," he told her. "Every time I come here, I put you at risk."

"You don't come here _that_ often," she joked.

His reply didn't tease in return. "Often enough. Enough that maybe someone might see a pattern, or recognize me and put two and two together. It's dangerous for you. Not only are you abetting a federal fugitive, there are other people who wouldn't work inside the law, and—"

"John."

He stopped looking at her hand and pulled his gaze up to hers instead. When she didn't continue, he said,

"Every time I come here I tell myself it's a bad idea. Just a bad idea—and one of these times it'll backfire—"

"John . . ." Stella interrupted again, then sighed and shook her head. "Would you stop coming here?"

"No!" he answered quickly, then frowned a bit and added in a softer tone, "But if you asked me not to visit, I would. To keep you safe. I'd . . . stop. I'd stay away and not see you."

"But you don't want to."

He shook his head forcefully. "No. I wish things were different. I wish I could figure out a way to make things different. I know I don't visit often, but I wish I could. I wish I could be with you every day—I miss you, Stella, and I want to be with you . . ."

She was up and by his side as he dropped his head. His free hand made a fist on the table, then wrapped itself around her waist as she tugged him upward beside her.

"I'm glad we have some times together, John," she told him sincerely. "I'm always glad when it's you at the door."

Hannibal tried to smile but wasn't quite able. His facial expression made no difference in the end; Stella pulled him—with very little protest—up the stairs to her bedroom again. It took a longer time than earlier, with pauses for kissing and groping and generally acting like teenagers in heat.

The lust continued into the night, and although Hannibal started the day feeling old, he certainly didn't feel that way at the end.


	3. Chapter 3

Two weeks, he'd told them. Two weeks of nothing to do with any of what his life had become. Of course that didn't include the security cameras he insisted on installing and taking her to a rifle range one day. Those were important safety measures; in his mind they shouldn't count.

His stay was a tonic to his life; Stella was balm to his spirit. They'd known each other a long time, so even with the infrequent and unannounced—unannounced was another safety precaution, in case someone got wise enough to tap her phone—visits there was no awkwardness between them. Hannibal showed up, she took care of him with cigars and brandy in the evenings, he took care of her with a tenderness that his men would have found out of character. And the sex! Hannibal doubted Face ever had the luck he did.

They were good for each other and with each other.

She did lament once that although she received his letters, she always wished she could return the favor. As he tried to apologize once again, she brushed off his regret with understanding.

In the same vein, Stella also told him he needed to quit sending money. She didn't need it; her savings were plenty; he required it more than she did, with all the temporary housing he and the team were forced to reside in. Hannibal was happy that for once he was able to wave her off and insist that it wasn't going to change.

This living was easy and comfortable, and Hannibal had pangs of bitter-sweetness that it was only a transient situation. He hadn't lied when he told her he wished he could be with her every day.

But thirteen days passed, and when he woke up the next morning with her watching him, he didn't say anything, couldn't say anything, to stop the tears in her eyes. He held her close and let her weep, and when her tears finally dried they made love with an intensity that shook him. They lay together for as long as they were able, then voicelessly she helped him collect his things and pack his bag.

He made a phone call out her earshot to B.A., who promised to pick him up from the same airport he'd left.

They stood together, him leaning on the stoop railing and her leaning against him, to wait for the taxi. They didn't speak, but occasionally one of her hands would slip between the buttons on his shirt and caress his stomach.

The cab arrived and idled in the street in front of the house. Hannibal held a hand up to the driver for a few more seconds. He turned to Stella.

"John Hannibal Smith, you take care of yourself," she told him firmly.

He was glad she was passed crying. Her strength was amazing. Nodding, he said gruffly, "I'll write."

"Thank you."

Then, knowing the driver already had him on the clock, he kissed her. She clung to him for a moment, then he turned away and started to the road.

"I'll see you again," he called over his shoulder.

"You better!"

He was able to smile as he got in the cab.

* * *

><p>True to his word, B.A.'s van was waiting as Hannibal stepped out of the terminal. He climbed in the front and tossed his duffel bag into the back as B.A. pulled into traffic. Neither of them particularly cared to stay on property with the possibility of Federal agents around.<p>

"You have a good two weeks, Colonel?" B.A. asked. "You looked healed up."

Hannibal put a hand to his lip. "Yes I did, B.A. It was too short, but these past two weeks did me a world of good."

B.A. nodded. "Good. Now I don't wanna ruin the surprise, but Murdock's been goin' on and on about them pandas—Face had to physically stop him from tryin' ta get in the pen with 'em—an' he won't shut up about this spy museum they toured—"

Hannibal grinned. "Sounds like it was a good two weeks for everybody."

The black man nodded again. "It was a good idea, Boss. Just like all o' yours."

Hannibal suddenly couldn't stop smiling.

_fin._


End file.
